


The Game is On

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Food, Hand Jobs, John's a tease, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, Shameless, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's A Brat, Smut, Teasing, Tumblr Prompt, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in a playful mood, John indulges him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LogicalApplication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalApplication/gifts).



> This was the original prompt from johnlockedatbakerst - 
> 
> Sometimes, when they're both in the right kind of mood, the boys end up play fighting/wrestling/ending up having playful fighting sex. There's position switching by pushing someone over, distraction to get the other undressed first, I-bet-I-can-make-you-come-first gauntlets thrown, and this generally takes place moving across the entire flat. Sherlock tries to use his height, reach and hand size- John counters with strength and reflexes. Plus Sherlock tends to go a bit wobbly when John goes BAMF

Sherlock had clearly woken up in a mood. 

 

Sherlock was rarely playful in the traditional sense, his usual modus operandi was making a joke under his breath or a sarcastic comment with a deadpan voice that made people question the seriousness of his words. John enjoyed that side of Sherlock immensely, especially since he had caught onto Sherlock’s sense of humor and was able to jab back as good as he got. Direct, dry and, to John’s thinking, hilarious. 

 

But sometimes, once in awhile, Sherlock would play coy and silently demand a chase. As if they were kids in a schoolyard. 

 

These moods were ones that John cherished. Not only because of their rarity but also for the drawn out game that would begin at the flutter of a pair of lush eyelashes in his direction. 

 

This was clearly one such day. 

 

John had woken at his usual time, leaving Sherlock in their bed to sleep a tad longer while he brewed them a couple cups of coffee. Lazy Tuesdays were uncommon in 221B so John made the most of it by not bothering to even dress properly. A pair of pajama pants and vest would suffice for breakfast attire until he could be buggered to put anything else on. He walked through the dim kitchen, sunlight just beginning to filter in through the windows. John blinked away his sleepiness, moving on autopilot to the coffeemaker. The appliance gurgled to life, the scent of coffee grounds filling his nostrils and John breathed it in, letting it wake him up. Out of the corner of his ear, a rustle of cloth pulled his attention from the counter. He turned to find Sherlock  wrapped in their sheet and draped against the doorway, looking on him with a fond smile. 

 

John returned his smile from the counter, leaning back on his hands. “Morning, love.”

 

Sherlock’s smile oozed into a very distinctive smile, one that said  _ the game is on, John _ , and his eyes blinked slowly like a contented cat. His low voice rumbled in reply, “good morning, John.”

 

_ That _ voice. The voice that told him Sherlock was up to something. Something that would provide endless entertainment in one form or another. John took stock of Sherlock’s posture, his countenance, deciding how best to proceed. 

 

_ Direct approach first,  _ he decided. 

 

Abandoning the coffee for the time being, he crossed the room and cupped Sherlock’s cheek to draw him into a languid kiss. One that promised more if he would play along. Sherlock smiled into the kiss, seemingly pleased with this development. Their tongues touched lazily, want drizzling down his spine like honey with every lick. John bit playfully at Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth to catch the gasp from his partner’s mouth. He placed a hand at Sherlock’s hip to steady him as he deepened the kiss, fully ready to push them towards the bedroom. 

 

But then, as half expected, one slender hand pressed itself to John’s chest to push him back an inch. 

 

“Steady on. It’s far too early for things of that nature  _ Captain Watson _ ,” Sherlock told him with a smirk that dared him to suggest otherwise. 

 

_ The game is SO on, Sherlock Holmes, _ John vowed internally. He knew full well that Sherlock enjoyed a morning tumble in the sheets. But clearly, that was not the end goal. 

 

No, he wanted to tease John until he snapped. They had played this game a few times before. The first time John was unaware he had even been playing until he ended up flat on his back with his arms pinned above his head and Sherlock growled at him to “do something about it”. It had been one of the best nights of sex in his life and one that John had kept in his wank bank for months. 

 

He was absolutely down for a repeat. 

 

John assumed a casual smile and left a chaste peck on Sherlock’s cheek before leaving him in the doorway. “Of course. Would you like a cup of coffee this morning?”

 

“Mmmm….yes, I think that would be splendid,” Sherlock replied, gliding from the doorway to the table. Bending over to perch his chin on one of his enchanting hands, he watched as John prepared their coffee. As if he had convinced gravity to work for him, when John brought their cups to the table he watched the sheet slip off Sherlock’s delectable shoulder. John’s eyes momentarily flicked over to the newly exposed skin to acknowledge its presence before gently pressing Sherlock’s cup into his free hand. 

 

They sat at the table together, smiling at each other. Round one of their competition had begun. 

 

Sherlock took a very deliberate sip of his coffee, groaning throatily at the hot, sweet beverage. He licked his lips after lowering the cup, chasing the last few drops from his sip. John mirrored the movement, sighing in contentment. His stomach complained at lack of solid food and John decided that this was as good a time as any to up the ante. 

 

His smile still affixed to his lips he said, “I fancy some toast. Shall I make you some as well or are you going to ignore your,” he dragged his eyes up and down Sherlock’s body slowly, “transport? As per usual.”

 

Sherlock blinked slowly at him, thinking. The moment stretched before he answered in the affirmative. In a couple minutes, four slices of toast sat on a plate between them as did a jar of raspberry jam, a jar of honey, and a dish of butter. John held out a knife for Sherlock so he could fix his toast to his liking. When Sherlock’s hand curled around the knife his fingers grazed John’s as he slowly drew the knife out of John’s grasp. John kept his hand curled until the knife had completely left his hand, as if the movement of Sherlock’s hands had frozen him to the spot. His hand now empty, John picked up his own knife and spread a generous slathering of butter on his own warm toast. 

 

For a few minutes they munched quietly, the sound of crunching toast and chewing the only sounds that filled the kitchen. Then, he noticed that there was a drop of honey making a steadfast journey down Sherlock’s wrist. 

 

Without warning, he reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. Locking eyes with him, he brought his wrist to his mouth, mouth opening only when it was just barely touching his lips. His tongue darted out to lick at the sticky sweet sap on Sherlock’s wrist. He watched as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered, as his throat worked to swallow back a gasp or moan. Deciding he wasn’t done quite yet, John licked a stripe up to Sherlock’s forefinger, sucking at the buttery and honey-caked crumbs he found there. This time Sherlock did gasp, so softly and briefly you would miss it if you weren’t listening for it. But  _ oh _ , John was listening for it and it satisfied him. 

 

With reluctance, he pulled his lips from Sherlock’s fingertips. His hold loosened, barely holding him, a silent order for Sherlock to take his hand back. Slowly, Sherlock’s hand retreated to his side of the table. His eyes shone with delight, relishing the challenge John had extended. 

 

Neither of them would make this easy for the other. John, for one, was prepared to play the long game. 


	2. Chapter 2

After they finished their breakfast, it was mutually agreed that they would spend the day in the flat. No cases to solve, no patients to see, no engagements to attend, no errands to run. Perfect. 

 

“I’m going to take a shower,” John told him, wanting to see what he would do with that information. 

 

“I need to take one as well. But, since you said it first, I suppose you can have first dibs.”

 

John smirked. “How magnanimous of you.”

 

Sherlock mock-gasped and placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me, John.”

 

John stood and leaned in close enough for their noses to touch. “Only a flesh wound, I’m sure.” He paused, letting the moment stretch tight before he rose and walked out of the kitchen. He called over his shoulder, “but, should you require any assistance for those wounds upon your pride, you know where to find me.”

 

Once safely ensconced in the bathroom John let out a shaky laugh.  _ God _ , was it exhilarating teasing Sherlock. Watching him stubbornly stick to the game when his body demanded otherwise. He had seen Sherlock’s pupils blown wide. He had seen his neck begin to flush. He watched as Sherlock licked his lips in desire as John leant in close. 

 

_ And it would only get more fun from here on out,  _ he promised himself. 

 

He made short work of his clothes and flipped the water on to heat up. While he waited for the shower to get up to temp, he brushed his teeth. Brush working over his gums, froth coating his lips, his attention was drawn to a flicker of movement through the translucent glass of the bedroom door. Figuring that Sherlock must have been changing, he paid it no more mind until the figure moved closer to door. 

 

He was about to ask if Sherlock needed something when his lover turned his back and let the sheet drop off both his shoulders. Never before had John cursed a pane of innocent glass but  _ damn _ did he wish that the glass was transparent. He had memorized every knob in his love’s back, every freckle on his arms, every stretch mark on his legs. And yet, he never tired of the sight. He got the distinct impression that, even though he couldn’t see fine detail even if Sherlock were facing him, the man was grinning like a loon. Then, Sherlock leaned against the glass, trapping the sheet between him and the door, and began to stretch. 

 

Sherlock’s arms came up over his head, fingertips disappearing into the space blocked by the wood paneling of the door. His back arched and the sheet fluttered slightly, ready to fall as soon as Sherlock moved away from the door. His soft sigh in satisfaction of a good muscle stretch was just barely heard over the sound of rushing water. 

 

John was aware he was staring, toothpaste foam trickling down his chin most unseemly. But he couldn’t be bothered to care when Sherlock’s body was so near and so tantalizingly on display for him. His cock stood at full attention, demanding that he take matters into his own hand. His fingers itched to open the door, catch him to his own naked body, and end their game right there.

 

And he might’ve done, too, if it weren’t for a smug voice calling him out.

 

“You better hurry, John. You’re wasting all the hot water.”

 

Not trusting his voice to be as calm, John just ducked into the shower to do his business and get out. The water hit him and his attention was refocused to his aching prick. He wouldn’t pull off right away, spoil the build up just yet. But he would scratch the itch a little. 

 

And give his brat of a lover something to think about. 

 

Smiling, he pressed his back to the cool, wet tiles of the bath before bringing a hand to his cock. The first touch made him sigh in relief, his slick fist taking the barest edge off his need. He gave himself a few pumps, rolling his hips into the movement as if he were putting on a visual show. His low moan fell from his lips, mingling with the sound of falling water. His thumb swirled over the head of his prick, smearing his precome into the water, making him impossibly wet. His fist moved then, stroking him quickly, drawing louder sounds of need from him until he was on the cusp of orgasm. He stopped, panting, letting the wave of desperation recede from him until he could breathe normally again. Then, only then, did he let himself go and turn off the water. 

 

Securing a towel across his hips, he walked towards the door to their room to find it open. Just slightly cracked so one could peek if they wanted to. Knowing he had achieved his goal of driving Sherlock on in their little game, he grinned as he walked into their bedroom. 

 

He found Sherlock still wrapped in his sheet, book about bees open but laid over his crotch. It wasn’t obvious through the folds of cloth and the thickness of the book as to whether or not Sherlock had an erection. But John was betting that he did. 

 

Sherlock’s face looked surly for a moment until he realized that John was still hard and wanting. But, rather than acknowledge it, John just dropped his towel as he dug into their drawers for a pair of pants. “Water’s still warm,” he told Sherlock, breaking the silence. 

 

Before he had a chance to turn back to ascertain Sherlock’s level of arousal, the door to the loo had been shut and the water turned back on once more. 

 

_ Round 2, down. Bring on round 3 _ , he thought cheerily to himself. 

 

~~~*~~~

 

Sherlock’s shower was brief and perfunctory. He took less than ten minutes total to freshen and dress himself. He waltzed into the sitting room in his standard house attire; loose fitting pajama pants, worn grey t-shirt, and his favorite blue silk dressing gown. His collar was slightly damp from the wet curls atop his head and it made John smile to know that he had been rushing because he wanted to continue their little game. 

 

The morning drifted into early afternoon without incident. They each sat in their chairs, laptops in their laps, enjoying a comfortable silence. Sherlock’s fingers flew over his keyboard, doing God knows what, while John pecked away at his own keyboard. Emails were answered, the blog was checked, news was read, and before he knew it it was after noon and he was hungry. He closed his computer and put it aside so he could rummage for something edible. 

 

In a few minutes he had put together a rather attractive sandwich. But just as he sat in his seat and took his first bite he realized how thirsty he was. With a sigh, he put his plate aside and got up to get a glass of water. When he returned to the sitting room it was to discover that Sherlock had purloined his sandwich. 

 

“And just what do you think you’re doing,” John asked him. 

 

“Should be fairly obvious,” Sherlock replied, mouth full of John’s sandwich.

 

“I can see that you’re eating my lunch. Care to share why?”

 

Sherlock stopped chewing for two seconds, quirked his eyebrow in his standard “isn’t it obvious” expression, and swallowed. “Because I was hungry. Aren’t you pleased? I would have thought you’d be delighted at me eating without you forcing food on me.”

 

“I’d be even happier if I’d get a chance to eat, too, you know.”

 

“Go make another one,” Sherlock said with a smirk before taking an obscenely large bite of his sandwich. 

 

John’s lips twisted into a dangerous grin. “Right.” He gently placed his glass of water on his side table with a small clink. Then he strode over to Sherlock’s chair and snatched the uneaten half of his sandwich. Sherlock tried to protest around the food in his mouth but it was too late. John raised the sandwich to his lips and took a bite. 

 

Smiling in triumph, he sat back in his own chair and crossed his legs comfortably. He took another smug bite, chewing deliberately. 

 

“That’s rather childish,” Sherlock accused. 

 

“And stealing my sandwich isn’t,” John countered. 

 

“I was hungry.”

 

“So was I.”

 

Sherlock finished the rest of the sandwich in one bite and placed the plate on the floor beside his chair. He folded his hands in his lap and watched as John finished his half of sandwich and downed the rest of his water. Food consumed and computerized distractions put away, it was time to resume their game. 

 

_ Speaking of _ , John mused. “How about a game?”

 

“Cluedo,” Sherlock asked hopefully.

 

“Definitely not.”

 

Sherlock pouted. “Worth a shot.”

 

“I was thinking Scrabble.”

 

Sherlock sniffed and gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Dull.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.” He leaned in towards Sherlock, arms resting on his knees. “I have a  _ very _ large...vocabulary. Could be interesting.” 

 

Sherlock mirrored his movements, leaning towards him with a skeptical look on his face. “And what would be the point of this game?”

 

“Fun? Chance to show off that beautiful brain of yours? Stave off any boredom?”

 

Sherlock took a moment to think about it before acquiescing to a game. Grinning, John walked over to the bookshelf that held the few board games they owned and retrieved the well worn Scrabble box. Sherlock repositioned John’s side table to sit between their chairs and pulled his chair closer to more easily access the board. Within minutes, they had set up their starting tiles and were ready to begin. 

 

John went first and started the game off with the word  _ zing _ for fourteen points. 

 

“Good start, I suppose,” Sherlock drawled. Then, with a blank face, he took advantage of the N tile and played  _ vintage _ for twenty one points. 

 

John huffed a brief laugh. “Showoff.”

 

“Don’t be a sore loser, John. It’s unbecoming,” he teased back. 

 

_ Oh, I’ll give you sore alright,  _ John threatened silently and played off Sherlock’s G tile, making the word  _ groan _ . “Twenty six points.”

 

Sherlock’s fingers placed his next tiles with little clicks, forming the word  _ runner, _ getting both a double letter and a double word. He smiled with pride and motioned for John to go ahead. Scanning the tiles, a plan formulated in John’s head. He may not be able to win the game with words but he could certainly win this round by flustering his poshboy. His fingers placed the tiles to make the word  _ fair, _ forfeiting larger points in favor of more suggestive language. 

 

Sherlock smiled at the small number of points and played the word  _ wise _ with a triple letter, giving him thirty three points. “Up to seventy already. Are you sure you want to keep going?”

 

John grinned, knowing exactly what word he would play next. “Absolutely.” Still grinning ear to ear, he played  _ taint _ , giggling to himself. 

 

Sherlock looked confused. “Why is that word funny?”

 

John giggled harder. “It’s slang, Sherlock.”

 

“Is slang allowed in Scrabble? Are you cheating Captain?”

 

“It counts if it’s in the Scrabble dictionary,”John defended.  _ And urban dictionary, of course. _ “Care to challenge?”

 

“No, I think the traditional definition will suffice for the purposes of the game. But, for future reference, what is “taint” slang for?”

 

John bit back another giggle and said, “it’s the term for the skin between your genitals and your anus.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. Real mature.”

 

John laughed. “You asked.”

 

The game continued on, Sherlock playing the words  _ vial, fowl,  _ and  _ bluff _ . John continued his strategy with the words  _ pet, prone, _ and  _ grin. _ Unfortunately for him, the tiles and word placements they had been getting weren’t exactly conducive for many filthy words until Sherlock finally played  _ kiln _ . 

 

_ Excellent, just what I needed _ , John thought as he played three tiles to attach to Sherlock’s K tile. 

 

“C, O, the blank tile is a C, and K makes-”

 

“Cock,” Sherlock finished for him. “Really, are we children?”

 

John giggled, not at all convinced by Sherlock’s stony exterior. “Come on, admit it. That’s funny.”

 

The barest hint of a smile twitched across Sherlock’s lips as he played  _ medic _ next. 

 

_ Dote. _

 

_ Severe. _

 

_ Yes! An S! _ , John thought happily as he played the word  _ sex.  _

 

Sherlock bit his lip, his neck getting a little pink at the purposeful look John sent his way. He scanned the board and smiled broadly before picking up a single tile and placed it on the board. “ _ Qi,  _ Forty two points.”

 

John’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is a “qi”?”

 

“The “qi” is a Chinese term for the vital force of all life.”

 

John blinked. “I see.”

 

“I’m still in the lead, almost two hundred points. What are you at now?”

 

“One hundred twelve.”

 

“Scrabble’s not your game today, is it,” Sherlock preened. 

 

John’s eyebrow quirked up in annoyance and petulantly placed a single tile on the board as well. “Cocks. One hundred twenty two.”

 

“That’s a lot of cock, John.”

 

That got them both rolling in laughter and it took a moment for Sherlock to recover enough to take advantage of another triple letter score. John then played  _ hole _ , causing Sherlock’s blush to creep a little further across his cheeks. Two more rounds each and they were both happily into the game when Sherlock, with two strategically placed tiles, created the word  _ bed _ twice over. His eyes flicked up to John, silently asking if he would like to end both their games right then and there.

 

_ I won’t make it that easy on you, love, _ John thought and placed his next word. “”Ha”, four points.”

 

An effective, solid decline. But Sherlock didn’t let up. 

 

Even though he probably had much better words to play, Sherlock shot him a look that said “really?” and placed his next word. “”Do”, six points.”

 

John shook his head, not ready to give up yet and placed his next word. “Ta, two points. Total of 171.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, played the word  _ us _ , and proclaimed himself the winner with 275 points. He slapped his thighs with a sound of finality and said sarcastically, “well, that was enriching. I think I’ll try something a little more challenging now. Perhaps that Vivaldi piece I was working on last week,  _ The Storm _ ? I think I’m close to mastering it.” He smirked. “Well, as close to mastering it as I can without an orchestra behind me, of course.”

 

Without waiting for John’s response, he hopped out of his chair and strode over to his violin and began tuning it. 

 

_ God, Vivaldi.  _ Sherlock knew Vivaldi was not John’s cup of tea. Some of it was lovely but his pieces tended to be manic, screechy, fast paced and completely impossible for one to listen to and relax. Sherlock usually only played Vivaldi when he was feeling anxious or when he wanted to get a rise out of John or Mycroft. And he clearly wanted John to react. 

 

_ Bugger that, _ John thought. Instead of acknowledging, he replaced his table where it belonged and picked up the daily paper to feign disinterest. Which was easy enough until the first few notes came pouring from Sherlock’s instrument. 

 

The notes were fast, high pitched, seemingly unending. The notes went from fluttering to screeching and then back and forth, the sounds chasing each other and John couldn’t help but praise Vivaldi for his choice in naming the piece. It certainly sounded like a storm to him. But then Sherlock’s wrist twisted wrong and the violin made an unintentional screech, causing John to wince. 

 

“Damn,” Sherlock said, unperturbed. “Guess I’ll have to start from the top.” 

 

Then he began again, fingers flying over the strings and his body swaying into the music. He turned his back to John, facing towards the sunlight coming in through their windows. He rocked and dipped into each note of the song, making it come alive with him. Then, halfway through he once again dropped a note and had to start all over. But, by the third restart of the song John had forgotten about how much he disliked Vivaldi. 

 

He was enthralled with Sherlock’s movements. The way the sunlight glinted off his hair, making the sweat on his brow glitter. The way his lithe fingers twittered over the strings, how his delicate wrists seemed so powerful in the way he sawed back and forth over the violin with his bow. Suddenly, he grinned, knowing how he could get back at Sherlock for subjecting him to the noise. 

 

After the fifth restart in the song Sherlock played it all the way through and turned back to John with a triumphant look on his face. He seemed prepared for a tongue lashing, knowing of John’s preferences. 

 

But, instead of complaining of the choice in song, John simply smiled at him. “Brilliant.”

 

Sherlock’s smile dropped, unexpecting praise. “What?”

 

“That was brilliant, Sherlock.”

 

“You...you liked it?”

 

John nodded, licking his lips. “Liked watching you. You’re so,” he stood, taking a step towards him, “passionate. I love watching your hands.”

 

In a completely un-Sherlockian fashion, he repeated John’s words. “My hands?”

 

“Yes,” he assured him, taking another step. “They’re so talented, your hands.” Walking around Sherlock’s chair, he took Sherlock’s unresisting bow hand in his own and examined it thoroughly with his eyes. “It’s amazing how you can coax so much sound out of these hands.” He flicked his eyes up to see Sherlock blushing and breathing slightly faster than normal. “Simply. Extraordinary.”

 

Sherlock swallowed hard and whispered, “th-Thank you.”

 

“No, thank  _ you, _ ” John corrected. Then, a moment of inspiration, he dropped Sherlock’s hand and turned towards their room.

 

“Where are you going,” Sherlock asked, confused.

 

“For a jog. Vivaldi’s inspired the need for some,” John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, “activity.”

 

“Activity?”

 

“Yes.” John turned and eyes Sherlock lavisciously, “your music has stirred something in my blood and I have an excess of energy that needs burning.”

 

“John-”

 

“No need to come along, Sherlock. I know you won’t want to leave the flat, now. Not when you have so much practicing to do.” He grinned and walked down the short hallway towards their room. In a few minutes he was changed into track shorts and a plain white t-shirt with tennis shoes laced on his feet. Sherlock was still standing in the living room, confused at the turn of events. “I’ll be back soon,” John told him and then, without another word, he was down the stairs and out the door on his impromptu jog. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

John jogged about halfway through Regent’s Park when he decided to head back towards Baker Street. By the time he ended back at the flat he was sweaty, pleasantly sore, and hungry again. Heading up the stairs he contemplated chinese takeaway and a good, hot shower. He opened the door to the flat to find Sherlock stretched out on the couch in his “mind palace” pose. He leaned in the doorway to look on his partner, never fully getting used to the fact that they had found each other. He still couldn’t believe his luck. But, rather than ask silly questions of Gods or the universe, he just thanked his lucky stars and decided to greet Sherlock with a kiss. 

 

He strode over to the couch and leaned over to place a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. Not expecting an answer, he said, “home.”

 

“You stink,” Sherlock replied. 

 

Grinning, John said, “that does tend to happen when you run for almost an hour.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and locked onto John’s. “You’re sweaty.”

 

“Excellent deduction,” John teased. 

 

“You should shower,” Sherlock told him. 

 

“Why? Don’t like the way I stink?” John dropped to his knees to gather Sherlock in a moist hug.

 

Sherlock struggled in his grasp. “Eww! John! You’re so gross!” 

 

John laughed, peppering Sherlock’s face with kisses. “Yes, but you love me anyway.”

 

“So sure about that are you,” Sherlock groused, trying to push John’s sweaty body off him. 

 

“Oh, so sure,” John told him confidently. But, not wanting to incur any of the detective’s wrath, he let go and stood up once more. “But, I’d like to keep it that way so I’ll take your suggestion of a shower.”

 

“Thank God for that.”

 

“Afterwards, how about some dinner? I’m starving.”

 

“I suppose I could eat.”

 

“Chinese?”

 

“You order,” Sherlock declared.

 

“Of course.” He swooped down to place one more wet kiss atop Sherlock’s head before heading towards the shower. 

 

Freshly showered and in a clean pair of pajamas, John put in their usual order. Knowing Sherlock’s penchant for stealing off his plate, he was sure to order an extra egg roll and an order of pot stickers on top of their orders of general tao’s chicken and szechuan beef. He filled the time with cleaning up their few dishes while Sherlock remained in his mind palace doing his mind palace thing. When the bell rang signalling the arrival of dinner John went to retrieve it. 

 

“Dinner’s on,” he called to Sherlock.

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Eating at the table or would you like a little telly with dinner?”

 

“That depends, what are we watching?”

 

John deposited the bags on the coffee table and handed Sherlock the remote. “Whatever you like, love. Dig in.”

 

After an obscene amount of channel flipping Sherlock settled on a rerun of the Great British Bake-off. Satisfied with his choice, he stabbed into his chicken with his fork and began eating. John sat back, getting cozy into the couch as he ate. He started to get sucked into the show, chuckling at the lame jokes Sue and Mel made and making comments about the bakers’ skills. His beef almost gone, he went in search of an egg roll and frowned to see that most of Sherlock’s chicken was still in its container but all the egg rolls were gone. 

 

“Did you have to eat all the egg rolls?”

 

“Didn’t know you wanted any,” Sherlock said, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

 

“Did you not notice that there were three? That should’ve been a clue.”

 

“I did notice.” He leaned in, hovering just a breath away from John’s face. “They were delicious.”

 

Annoyed, but not surprised, John rolled his eyes. “Prat.” Then he reached down and snatched the container of pot stickers from the table. “Hope you enjoyed those egg rolls because you’re not getting any of these.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth opened in surprise. “That’s petty, John.”

 

“Yeah, well, you drive me to petty.” Sherlock tried to reach over and snag one out of the container and John poked at his hand with his fork “Get back, you! Mine!”

 

Sherlock huffed and hunkered down into the couch in a great impression of a sulk. John shook his head and bit into a pot sticker, groaning at the delicious flavor of the greasy pork. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. 

 

Then, a pair of bony toes stabbed him in his thigh, pulling him from his revery. “ _ Ow _ ,” he said, mouth still full of food.

 

Sherlock looked at him, eyes proclaiming innocence. “What?”

 

John looked down at Sherlock’s toes pressed into his thigh and then up to Sherlock who had laid back into the seat of the couch with his head resting on the arm rest. John waved his fork at Sherlock’s feet and said, “what was that for?”

 

“Your thighs are warm. My feet are cold. Seemed only appropriate that if you won’t share your food, you’ll share your body heat.”

 

“Hey now, I shared my food. You ate  _ my  _ share of the eggrolls. Seems only fair I get to eat your share of the pot stickers.” Sherlock pouted at him and John shook his head. “No, no, you don’t get to pout at me and get your way.”

 

“Why not? It’s worked before.”

 

“Yes, well, food is another matter.”

 

Sherlock crossed his arms. “You’re a cruel man, John Watson.”

 

“Should’ve thought of that before you ate my eggroll.”

 

Sherlock frowned and then launched himself forward to snatch the container of pot stickers out of John’s hands. 

 

“Hey! Git, give me those back!”

 

“Make me,” Sherlock challenged.

 

In a second John laid himself out over Sherlock’s body to reach for the pot stickers. Sherlock’s long arms kept it just out of reach if John didn’t want to let him up or hurt him by pressing somewhere tender. No matter, though. John just poked him in the ribs, causing Sherlock to flinch and his arms to curl inwards slightly. With a triumphant cry, John reached out and caught the edge of the container and pulled it sharply towards him.

 

“Get off, you big brute,” Sherlock cried.

 

“As soon as you let go, I will,” John promised.

 

“Like hell, I’ll let go.”

 

“Right, that’s it,” John said, patience gone. He gripped Sherlock’s wrists and brought them together over his head. Sherlock wriggled beneath him, trying to unseat him, but John used his solid weight to hold himself firm. Then, with ease, he held Sherlock’s more slender wrists in one hand and plucked the container from Sherlock’s hands.

 

John could have left it at that. He had what he wanted, a container still holding four pot stickers. But Sherlock’s hips thrashing beneath him stirred something in John that had been lying dormant all afternoon. Finally finding a chance to gain the upper hand in their game, he set the pot stickers aside and pressed Sherlock harder into the couch. 

 

Chuckling, he said, “what’re you going to do now, Sherlock? Hmm?” Sherlock stilled beneath him, glaring up at him. John’s smile told him  _ bring it on _ . 

 

Sherlock smiled back, teeth shining in a feral snarl before he pushed up sharply. The momentum had John riding him like a bucking bronco. He planted his foot, gaining him some leverage and managed to roll them off the couch and onto the floor. Sherlock broke his wrists free and in a second had John’s hands pinned above his head. 

 

“Ahh! Sherlock,” John complained. Luckily neither of them had hit their head or hurt anything important. 

 

“Anything you’d like to say, John?”

 

_ Oh, you won’t have me that easy, _ John promised internally. 

 

John bent his knees up, and pushed up with his hips to unsettle Sherlock’s hold on him. He angled him towards the coffee table, knowing Sherlock would catch himself. Unprepared for this move, Sherlock reached out to catch himself with his right hand on the coffee table, releasing John’s left hand. Even though it was his weaker arm, he still remembered what he learned in the army. He pushed the table out of the way with a shove, knocking Sherlock even more off balance and then, free from anything that might cause injury, he pulled his next move. John broke Sherlock’s hold on his right arm, placed both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, twisted his hip and slid out from under Sherlock’s weight. 

 

He stood, dropping easily into the familiar defensive stance he learned in the army. Grinning, he eyed his opponent.

 

“I think we need to get you some lessons on self defense,” John joked. “That hold was too easy to break.”

 

Sherlock stood and shrugged off his dressing gown, assuming a defensive stance as well. “It has been some years since I’ve regularly sparred. Perhaps you’re right.” 

 

He took a step forward and John took a step back, eyes darting between Sherlock’s hands and feet to try and anticipate what he would do next. Though he knew he would regret the rolling around they were about to do, John’s body thrummed with excitement. It had been an age since he’d had a chance to have a friendly spar, detective work more of a “sucker-punch-then-hogtie” sort of affair. Sherlock reached out with a few experimental jabs and John dodged them easily. They circled each other, making small lunges to test each other’s reflexes and coordination. 

 

Then John reached out, lightning quick and pulled Sherlock into a headlock, spinning him face-first into the wall near the door. Sherlock grunted on impact and then jabbed backwards with his elbows into John’s stomach. 

 

“Oof,” John exhaled, groaning in pain and dropping the headlock. Sherlock spun and and swept John’s legs out from under him, sending him right back to the floor. He immediately dropped to pin him, settling his weight squarely on John’s hips once more. 

 

Panting with exertion, Sherlock said, “perhaps we should both go. Could be an interesting date.” John giggled, and stared up at Sherlock. His body relaxed, submitting for the time being. 

 

It seemed only natural the John would counter being pinned with a kiss. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The kiss started slow, unhurried, John pressing sweetly into Sherlock’s unresisting lips. Sherlock opened up beautifully to him, allowing John’s tongue to probe inside his mouth and lick out small sighs. Sherlock melted into John’s body, letting himself press more solidly against John’s torso while maintaining his firm grasp on John’s wrists. John let him hold his wrists, completely at ease with his position. He’d never admit it out loud, but he thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock’s weight on him. It made him feel grounded, secure, protected, secure. So he let Sherlock take control, moaning at the loss of Sherlock’s lips as they began a path down John’s neck. 

 

John arched into Sherlock’s lips, neck turning to further expose itself to him. His hips rocked up, seeking friction but Sherlock, continuing his tease, shifted himself so that John would receive none when he moved. 

 

“Sherlock,” John whined. 

“John,” Sherlock teased. His lips curled into a smile even as he nibbled at the skin beneath John’s ear. 

 

John squirmed, trying to break Sherlock’s hold so he could move freely. Sherlock chuckled and gripped his wrists harder and bit sharply at the tender skin he’d been mouthing. 

 

John’s hiss of pain turned into a groan of need, “fuck, Sherlock.”

 

“Is that what we’re doing?”

 

“Prick,” John said through gritted teeth. 

 

“I have one, yes. How observant.” With that, Sherlock ground his hips into John’s belly so he could fully feel his erection. John groaned and writhed beneath him, desperate for any kind of stimulation on his own prick. But Sherlock paid him no mind, only continuing to kiss, bite, and suck on John’s neck while he lazily ground into John. 

 

“ _ God, _ please,” John panted. 

 

Sherlock made his way back to John’s lips. “Please what?” He kissed him, not allowing a response to escape. 

 

John bit at Sherlock’s lip until he pulled back slightly. “God, just touch me.”

 

“I am touching you.”

 

He ground down more forcefully, more completely, before sliding back just enough so that his arse connected with John’s straining erection. John gasped at the too brief contact and groaned a complaint when Sherlock moved away. 

 

“You’re a bloody tease, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Like you’re any better, John Watson.”

 

Sherlock returned to kissing him, unrelenting in his pace. John went completely limp beneath him, letting Sherlock drive them onwards. Eventually, his submission lured Sherlock into a sense of security of his position and he let John’s arms go so he could shove John’s shirt up to expose his nipples. The first warm, wet lap of Sherlock’s tongue against his nipple had John’s body clenching and his breath panting. Sherlock sucked the pert nub, grazing it with his teeth and John brought his hands up to cup Sherlock’s head, keeping him there. 

 

After releasing John’s nipple Sherlock pushed up from him slightly. He tugged on John’s shirt and said, “off, off!”

“Yes,” John replied, helping by letting his arms raise up so Sherlock could remove it. 

 

Then, John made his move. His hands went around to cup Sherlock’s arse and his abdominals pushed him up until Sherlock was no longer pinning him. Rather, he was sitting in John’s lap and John finally had access to Sherlock’s neck. The height difference made it difficult but he managed to wrap his lips around Sherlock’s adam’s apple, drawing a keen from Sherlock. 

 

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned. John hummed in agreement, the vibration adding extra sensations to his ministrations. 

 

Sherlock relaxed into him and John took advantage of his distraction. One hand on his lower back and the other buried in Sherlock’s hair, he tipped them over so that Sherlock was laid out on his back and John was between his legs. Sherlock’s legs squeeze in on him as John bent to mouth at the strip of skin between Sherlock’s ridden up t-shirt and the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock’s hands came to grip John’s shorter hair, fingernails scratching across his scalp. 

 

John’s tongue laved across his navel, Sherlock’s belly tightening and clenching in response. John let his hands slide up under Sherlock’s shirt to tease at his nipples. Then, following a similar path, John’s mouth made it’s way up Sherlock’s torso, pushing the shirt up as he went. He took a second to remove Sherlock’s shirt before attacking the man’s nipples with his mouth. 

 

Sherlock cried out, his nipples ridiculously sensitive. “Oh, John!”

 

John hummed in reply and ground their pelvises together, rubbing their erections against each other. Sherlock’s legs wrapped tighter around him and rocked upwards into John’s thrusts. Desperately needing Sherlock’s lips, John abandoned his chest so as to thoroughly kiss Sherlock senseless. 

 

At a particularly amorous thrust, John’s knee began to complain and he groaned in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He pulled back and was treated to confusion in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“Why’d you stop,” he asked. 

 

“Too old to be rolling around on the floor like a bloody teenager,” John told him. He leaned back and took Sherlock’s hands, pulling him to sit up with him. “Bed?” Sherlock nodded and they both stood.

 

John led the way, Sherlock’s hand still in his own. Then, in an instant, he was pressed against the wall with one hundred eighty plus centimeters of consulting detective covering him. His lips were seized upon and John gave himself up to the sensation. He brought his hands up to card through Sherlock’s hair as they kissed, tugging on the roots to pull a moan from him. Sherlock’s hands skimmed down his sides and then around to slide into his trousers and cup his arse. John rocked into his hold, relishing the warm, possessive grip of Sherlock’s hands. 

He bent his knee up to wrap around Sherlock’s hip, rocking into him so that he could gain some much needed friction on his erection. Sherlock broke the kiss, mouth dropping open in pleasure as John rolled into him. 

 

“Not enough,” Sherlock panted before dropping to his knees, taking John’s pajama pants with him. 

 

Exposed to the cooler air of the flat, John’s prick twitched. But he didn’t have long to wait for it to be warmed again. Without preamble, Sherlock swallowed John down to the root, groaning in pleasure. 

 

“Christ,” John barked out, biting his fist against shouting. 

 

Sherlock worked him over in long, fast sucks. Pulling out almost to the tip before sinking down to the base, he fucked his face on John’s cock and spurred John faster towards orgasm. His tongue pressed and swirled around his head before plunging back down, causing John to swear and twitch above him. 

 

His orgasm was fast approaching but John refused to end it this soon. He gripped Sherlock’s hair tightly and pulled the man off his cock. The sight of glassy, half lidded eyes and shiny lips was nearly as erotic as the blowjob had been and John couldn’t help but stare. 

 

“John-”

 

“Too much, too soon,” John explained. 

 

Sherlock nodded and rose to kiss John soundly. With Sherlock preoccupied with kissing him, it was the perfect moment to turn the tables. John pushed off the wall and propelled them to the opposite wall, trapping Sherlock. John broke the kiss and began attacking Sherlock’s lovely, lovely neck while he snaked his hand into Sherlock’s pajamas to palm at his erection. 

 

“ _ John!” _

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John replied, Sherlock’s blood hot prick in his hand. He was so hard, thick with desire, and John couldn’t help himself. He fondled and stroked until Sherlock was bucking up into his hand. John’s other arm curled around him, holding him in place while he continued to stroke and pull Sherlock faster. He caught his cries of pleasure in his own mouth, kissing him in wet, open mouthed kisses. 

 

Then, without warning, he stopped and took a step back. Sherlock slumped against the wall, delirious with desire and desperate for an orgasm, so far denied. At Sherlock’s look of questioning, John grinned at him and walked into their bedroom, leaving the door wide open. 

 

In a moment, he was tackled and pressed hard into the mattress. 

 

_ This is it, won’t be long now, _ John thought excitedly as they resumed their kissing. John’s legs wrapped around Sherlock tightly and began rocking up to frot against him. Sherlock’s moans were shameless, loud, and utterly arousing. Then, Sherlock snuck his hand between them to wrap his long fingers around them both and John’s couldn’t help himself. 

 

He cried out, Sherlock’s name falling from his lips. “ _ God! Sherlock!” _

 

_ “John, john, john!” _

 

_ “Fuck, don’t stop!” _

 

_ “Never, _ ” Sherlock promised. 

 

The sound of slick from their cocks mingled with their cries of pleasure and soon John was at the precipice. All he needed was one little push and it would be over for him. He dug his nails into Sherlock’s back, working his hips harder, desperate.

 

“I- I need,” John tried, needing something but unsure what.

 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock encouraged. 

 

“I need-  _ ahh!” _

 

Sherlock bit into his shoulder and then, just like that, John was coming. John shouted with his release, cock twitching and pulsing in Sherlock’s hand as he stroked him through it. He fell limply against the mattress just in time to see Sherlock sit back, staring down at him in lust. He used John’s come to further lubricate himself and John’s prick gave a small twitch at the erotic picture Sherlock painted. 

 

John couldn’t help himself. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He framed his hips with his hands, holding him steady, providing grounding as he watched Sherlock bring himself off. “That’s it, come all over me, mark me,” he crooned. 

 

“Oh,  _ yes!” _ Sherlock crumbled with the weight of his orgasm, body jerking as he fell atop John, smearing their fluids into their skin. 

 

It took several minutes for them to regain their breath and for their bodies to stop twitching in the aftermath. When he could do so without his hand shaking, John brushed Sherlock’s curls back from his face and pressed sweet, loving kisses to his forehead, cheeks, and eyes. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction then pulled his face away to burrow it into John’s neck. 

 

They clung to each other until the mess between them was too gross to ignore. Groaning, they helped each other stand and went to wash away the evidence of their daylong game. Then, naked and spooning in bed, they settled in for a well deserved sleep. 

 

Before drifting off, John whispered, “that was fun.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “I quite agree.”

 

“Who won,” John said, grinning against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

“I would think that’s fairly obvious.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Sherlock turned in John’s arms and burrowed once again into John’s neck. He breathed deeply and said, “it was both of us, you great idiot.”

 

John chuckled at that and kissed the top of his head. “I suppose you’re right.”

 

Muffled by John’s neck, Sherlock replied, “I’m always right.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sleep well you smug peacock.”

 

“You too, John.”

 

And then, thoroughly contented and satisfied, they slept. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! I certainly did. Don't forget, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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